The Old Five and Dime

When I was a boy in North Lewisburg, I was quite the entrepreneur by age ten. I had acquired a list of loyal neighbors and family who entrusted their lawn care to me. Additionally, I was shortly thereafter a route carrier...a “paperboy”...for the Columbus Dispatch newspaper. And, to top it off, I had joined the 4-H organization, and raised champion hogs in county fair competition.

For my age, I had a lot of money, and then – as now – it literally burned a hole in my pocket. I eventually bought a Schwinn bicycle, with all of the trimmings. I bought a reel-to-reel tape recorder. I bought my own black-and-white television set, and my own stereo system. And, I still had money left over.

What better place to spend some of that hard-earned cash than the “Five and Dime” store on Maple Street, operated by Mrs. Alma Hall. She was ably assisted by a bevy of sales clerks, to include Mrs. Ruth Painter and Mrs. Helen Barnes, and others whose names I have forgotten over the years.

The store was a treasure house of goodies for a young guy with money to burn. Right at the front of the store, in a very big and tall glass and metal display case, was the “bulk” candy. The individual bins were filled with a luscious collection of mouth-watering treats. Alma, or one of the other ladies, would use the big metal scoop to dig into the piles of candy, and then transfer the sweet stuff to a scale. Candy was sold in ¼ pound, ½ pound, ¾ pound and 1 pound helpings...sometimes more if the buyer had a particularly needy sweet tooth.

My eyes always fell on the chocolate-covered peanuts. I placed my order for the appropriate weight, and watched with anticipation as Alma transferred the candy to a white paper bag, the open top of which she next folded over to protect the contents. Money and bag exchanged hands almost simultaneously, and I quickly opened the latter to extract with nimble fingers a few of the sweet-smelling chocolate confections. I enjoyed the candies as I moved about the store, seeking out additional treasures.

On the right side of the store, facing the back wall, could be found the “sundries and notions.” I never understood what that term meant, but knew that here I would find the crocheting needles, thread, yarn, and thimbles which my Grandma Katie Impson so often sent me to buy for her. There were pins of all sorts, bolts of beautiful cloth, and other similar items to primarily catch the attention of the female customers. There was a huge wooden rack, which held hundreds and hundreds of patterns for dresses, skirts, shirts, trousers, aprons, and other creations much-sought by the girls and ladies who knew how to sew. (Hard to believe, but back in those days many people actually made their own clothes! Imagine!)

The counters stretched to the far, back wall, on the right side of the store and contained pots, pans, utensils, flatware, knives, plates, cups, saucers, bowls of every color and description. Some items were plastic – although not many. Many others were ceramic, or metal - every little gizmo and gadget which the modern, 1950s kitchen would need.

On the left side of the store, right near the front window, was the magazine display. Someone could always be found standing there, browsing through an appealing publication – with the occasional reprimand from Alma or one of the other ladies that the magazines were for sale; it was not a public library. There was a wire which stretched from near the entrance door to the far left wall, complete with wooden clothespins (the ones which functioned like tongs, not the ones which often wound up with painted faces and hats and bodies, like very thin people). The pins held an array of magazines which were suspended in mid-air, just above eye level. Here could be found the DC comics, the Walt Disney publications featuring Mickey, Donald, Goofy and Scrooge McDuck. Here also were the most recent copies of that treasure above all others...”Mad” Magazine, with Alfred E. Newman's familiar “What, Me Worry?” repartee.

Down that same aisle could be found clothes – shirts, trousers, jeans, dresses, skirts, and even some shoes – to keep the town's patrons in fashion. There were a few hats – fedoras, straw hats, baseball caps, bonnets, and bandanas to cover the heads of those in need.

There was a toy section, with a large selection of toys of all kinds, and within every kid's (or parent's) price range. There were the cap guns, revolvers, rifles, machine guns, with which we boys defended the community from foreign aggression. There were boxes and boxes of caps, to add realism (but most especially NOISE) to the firearms and play. There were squirt guns, which when filled to capacity with cold water, were sure to surprise the unsuspecting. There were the balsa wood “model” airplanes, with the moveable main wing, rudder, and tail wing which could be adjusted to help prolong the gliders' flights. There were balloons of every description and color – and bags upon bags of beautifully-colored cats-eye marbles, the boys' trading medium of the day.

The very back of the store held shovels, and rakes, and galvanized buckets and tubs, mops, and brooms, and other such things which were available for those customers who were inclined to use them.

The lights which hung from the ceiling were suspended on long rods, and an acorn-shaped glass dome to cover and protect the incandescent bulbs. There were long strings dangling down the sides which were pulled to illuminate or darken the various areas of the store.

It was such fun to simply browse throughout the store and visually take in all of the wonders to be found there.

The old store is gone now, after years of dedicated service and prominence in the community. Alma Hall died in 1972, at the age of 76. Ruth Painter died in 1987; Helen Barnes died in 1991. Now, each rests from her labors in peaceful Maple Grove Cemetery, on the western outskirts of the community.

Over the years other retail businesses gave that same location a “go,” but there was never again anything to match the unique world of the “Five and Dime.” The pizza shop, which now occupies the former location of the Bank of North Lewisburg, has expanded its operation to include the old storefront.

I, for one, would just like another opportunity to enter the old store, to savor its atmosphere, to be greeted by one of the friendly ladies, and to plunk down my quarter for another bag of those chocolate-covered peanuts.

He Donned The Union Blue

Benjamin Impson was 32 years of age, a shingle-maker and woodworker, when he made the decision in 1864 to enlist in one of the volunteer infantry regiments which was being formed for service in the Civil War.  He left his wife, Maria, and their children  behind on that cold February morning and made the trip to Columbus, Ohio, to enlist as a private in Company B, 32nd Ohio Volunteer Infantry.  He was soon sent on to Louisville, Kentucky, to link up with his unit and experience some preliminary training as an infantryman.

His unit had previously seen serious fighting throughout the region, and had served as part of Major General Ulysses S. Grant's army at Vicksburg.  By 1864, the unit had been transferred to Major General Sherman's command.  In February, 1864, it operated under Sherman at Meridian, then returned to Vicksburg, re-enlisted, and, after the furlough home, joined Sherman's army at Acworth, GA, on the 10th of July. In the fighting around Atlanta on the 20th, 21st, 22nd and 28th, the Thirty-second took an active part, losing more that half its numbers.

Benjamin had been detailed out to another assignment in February 1864, accompanying bodies of deceased soldiers, their gear, and excess cannon to Bedloe's Island, New York.  In the process of removing the heavy cannon from the ship, he ruptured the muscles in his right chest, which produced a painful, protruding bulge which he carried with him for the rest of his life.  After recovering, he was transported to Georgia to link up with his comrades under Sherman's command.  He fought at the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain, and lost partial hearing when he was in close proximity to the horrible cannon which decimated the Confederate ranks.  He was hospitalized for a short period of time due to complications which accompanied severe diarhhea, and was plagued with that illness for the balance of his years.

After the fall of Atlanta, the regiment joined in the pursuit of Hood, participated in the historic "Sherman's March to the Sea" as it laid waste to a swath of Georgia some sixty miles wide before capturing the city of Savannah which was awarded to President Lincoln as a Christmas gift.  The army then crossed  through the Carolinas, and on the 20th and 21st of March, 1865, took part in the engagement at Bentonville, then moved with the national forces to Raleigh, and was present at Johnston's surrender. The victorious army marched through the Confederate capital of Richmond, Virginia, then on to Washington, where it took part in the Grand Review before the President and his cabinet. After that, it moved to Louisville, KY, was mustered out of the service July 20, then proceeded to Columbus, Ohio, where the men received their final discharge on the 25th day of July, 1865.

Benjamin returned home to Ohio where he continued once again in his trade as a shingle-maker and woodworker.  He also developed some skills as a shoemaker and clockmaker while he worked to provide for his family.  His young daughter Florence died in 1875 at age 8, followed just a short time later by the death of his beloved wife Maria in 1877.  In 1879 he married for a second time...to Amanda Kaline Salsigiber.  Beset with deafness and recurring problems of health, he applied for a Civil War disability pension in 1885.  This was eventually approved in the amount of $10 per month, but was reduced to $6 per month shortly thereafter. He began an appeals process which lasted for the next twenty years as he attempted to regain that lost portion of his disability pension.  At one point, he was ordered to travel from North Lewisburg to Delaware, Ohio, to appear before a board of medical doctors to determine if an increase in his disability was warranted.  Unable to work due to his health complications, and already $10 behind in his rent, Amanda had to resort to selling her last remaining rug for $2.00 to pay for his trainfare to the examination.  His appeal was initially rejected; in April 1907 it was approved in the amount of $12 per month.  He died at the age of 76 in September 1908, and was buried in Square 131, Lot 2, Grave 1, Maple Grove Cemetery, North Lewisburg, Ohio.  Amanda survived him as a Civil War widow until 1923.  She was entitled to a $30 per month widow's pension.  She was also legally blind.

A government limestone marker, weathered by more than 100 years of west winds, rain, snow, heat and freezing cold, marks his gravesite.  A bronze Grand Army of the Republic stand is decorated each Memorial Day with an American flag.  "He donned the Union Blue to serve his country."

I am very proud of my maternal great-great-grandfather, Benjamin Impson, Private, Company B, 32nd Ohio Volunteer Infantry, patriot, and of HIS grandfather, Benjamin Impson, for whom he was named, who served with distinction in four separate New York militia units during the American Revolution..

One November Morn

John Tritt, 40, was well-liked by the townspeople of North Lewisburg...so much so that he had been selected to serve as town marshall.  He took his responsibilities seriously, often remaining on duty well beyond the normal work hours as set by the town council.  Such was the case on that Monday morning, November 16, 1908.  He had made his customary rounds of the business section of the community, looking and listening for anything out of the ordinary.   He passed by the small shops and post office as he made his way down to the Erie train depot with the intention of spending a few minutes with the telegraphy operator before "calling it a night" and returning to his home.  After a pleasant visit with lively conversation, he offered to return to the council chambers to retrieve a couple of savory fall apples for his friend.  It was about 3 a.m. when he approached the town square once again.  He thought he heard an unfamiliar noise, and so cautiously stopped in the middle of the street.  He could not determine if the sound emulated from a grocery store or the nearby post office. 

He decided to check out the latter.  As he approached the post office, the door suddenly opened and Tritt found himself face-to-face with an armed gunman.  The man immediately fired at Tritt as Tritt drew his own revolver and returned fire.  Stepping outside the post office, the gunman fired again, striking Tritt in the left knee and shattering the leg.

Two robbers quickly fled the scene as Tritt remained on the street writhing in pain and calling for help.  The crooks ran toward the southern boundary of the town, where they confiscated a horse and buggy rig which was owned by Richard Curl.  Charles Easton, who happened to be nearby, saw the rig as it speeded out of town in the direction of Urbana, some 16 miles away.

In the meantime, Tritt had gained enough strength to slowly rise and work his way toward the home of Dr. Hunter, one of the town's physicians.  The latter was awakened from bed, and came to Tritt's aid.  He sent a runner to contact Dr. Garwood, another local physician.  The .38 caliber lead ball was located in Tritt's leg shortly thereafter, and surgically removed along with a section of shattered bone.  M. F. Freeman, local mortuary director, was summoned and arrived shortly with his ambulance to take the wounded Tritt to a hospital in Marysville, nine miles distant. 

Police in surrounding communities had been contacted via the new telephone system regarding the shooting and attempted robbery, and were on the lookout for the fleeing bandits.  Law enforcement officers quickly traveled to North Lewisburg to assist in the investigation there.  A team of bloodhounds were brought to the post office, and quickly led the police on a chase toward the town's fairgrounds and where the horse and buggy had been stolen.  They were also able to lead the police officers in the direction of Urbana.  In that community, the stolen rig was located, abandoned in an alley, the horse fatigued from having driven the crooks to that area in about an hour's time.  The thieves then stole yet another rig, this one belonging to Judge T. B. Owens, and continued their flight westward from Urbana. 

The criminals made good their escape while the faithful John Tritt lay recouperating in a Marysville hospital.  He survived the threat of possible blood poisoning from the infection, only to be left with a crippled left leg which he could no longer bend.  He walked with a noticeable limp for the rest of his life.

The good lawman was shot and forever scarred while protecting the $900 in cash and a large number of postage stamps which the robbers had failed to steal from the post office safe.  They left their sledge hammer and chisel behind along with a wounded marshall laying wounded in the street, a victim of their botched attempt, and a new local hero.  The faithful lawman died  in 1937 at the age of 74 years, 6 months, and 2 days.  He is buried in Maple Grove Cemetery, North Lewisburg.

This story was gleaned from an article which appeared in The Marysville Republican, Marysville, Ohio, Thursday, November 19. 1908, page 1.

Of Cherry Trees and Storms

For a number of years, from age 1 to about age 12, I lived in a small frame house at the corner of Sycamore and North Streets in North Lewisburg. Mom had made a down payment on the old, clapboard house with some of the insurance funds she received after my father's death in World War II. There was a vacant lot adjacent to the south, which at the southernmost boundary sported several cherry trees. In the spring, I could look out the front room window and watch those trees as they developed bright, green buds. The buds then blossomed into beautiful white flowers which eventually became bright, red cherries. I always looked forward to the day when I could approach the trees for the first time to pluck some of those tart, but delicious red cherries, while scaring away the plundering blackbirds in the process. More than once, Mom joined me in the picking, gathering enough cherries to make a cobbler or pie. As we picked, we would talk about whatever topic came to mind that day; those were precious moments.

Once, we noticed a large number of caterpillars in the leaves around the cherries. There were small, but intricate webs which stretched between small branches. The green, repulsive-looking worms were busy crawling to and fro, apparently feeding on the tender leaves. Off-handedly, Mom remarked that we would have a lot of wind and rain for the balance of the spring. I asked her why she thought so, and jokingly asked when she had become a "weatherman."

She then told me a tale of her youth, when she and her older sister Henrietta and younger brother Harold, had listened to a neighbor's story. The old man...so many years had passed that she could not remember his name...had a scruffy, white beard which added character to his lean, chiseled face. He was sitting on a rickety wooden chair on his delapidated front porch, with the three kids seated around him on the old plank floor. He had a pipe in his hand - the tobacco long ago smoked away - which he waved from time to time as he accentuated his story.

He talked first of little, green caterpillars which could be found in cherry trees. He told my Mom and her siblings that those creatures were forebearers of what was to come. He said an abundance of the little crawlers, with their silvery, silky webs and nests, were an indication of how bad the year's weather was to be. He said that he had observed many such caterpillars and their nests in the leaves of some cherry trees just recently. He was sure their numbers indicated that the rest of the spring was to be wet and windy. He also said he had seen more and more such warnings over the years. To the horror of the kids at his feet, he predicted that the town, North Lewisburg, would one day be destroyed by rain and wind.

Mom later told me that she, her sister, and her brother all hurried away from the neighbor's porch to relate the story to their mother. Grandma Katie assured the children that it was all just a story, told with the intention of scaring them.

When Mom concluded her story, I stood quietly for a few minutes, thoughtfully plucking each red cherry from the tree and placing it in one of those small, woven wooden quart baskets. "Is that why?" I asked.

She responded with "Why what?"

"Is that why you are so scared when we have a thunderstorm and wind?"

Mom looked at me for a short time, then asked "You've noticed that?"

"Yes, I know how frightened you look. You get nervous, and usually move out to the kitchen. You sit on a chair by the door to the cellar."

She then told me that she had always been afraid of thunderstorms, with the lightning flashes, the thunder, the pelting rain, and the wind. She had never lived in a house with a basement, but she would usually find a place in the house where she thought she would be protected. In our little frame house, she took refuge in the kitchen because there was a small, damp "fruit cellar" there where she could quickly hide if the noise and wind became too much for her. She said the old man's story of how North Lewisburg would be destroyed by rain and wind came back to her each spring and summer.

I looked at my Mom without responding. She was a tall, muscular, dark-haired, and brown-eyed woman who had experienced much sorrow in her lifetime. But, I had always thought of her as a strong person...one who could withstand the challenges of life. I now understood that she could also experience fear.

As I grew up in that house, in the farmhouse to which we moved in 1957, and in the larger house on East Street where we lived from 1959-1968, I was always consciously aware of Mom's fear when the storms arrived each spring. I watched her each time as she made certain the doors were closed, and then made her way to some place of safety in the house...the stairway in the farmhouse, the stairway or furnace room in the house on East Street. She always found a place to sit while she nervously awaited the storm's passing fury, her head bent low and supported by her hands. Occasionally there would be a sigh or a whimper which escaped her lips. Sometimes there would be a tear or two cascading down her cheeks. Always there was that anxious determination to ride out the storm.

Mom became ill in 1980. I was home on leave from the Army, and at her bedside for most of the last 45 days of her life. We had many occasions to talk about whatever subject she wanted to discuss at the time. One evening, she brought up the old fear she had of thunderstorms and wind. In her last year, she was residing in a mobile home which sat on the once-vacant lot where we had picked cherries so many years before. Her niece, my cousin, had purchased the old frame house we had once called home. Mom told me that a fierce storm had swept through North Lewisburg, complete with driving rain, wind, thunder and lightning. She was sitting alone in the mobile home, the rain pelting against the aluminum roof and walls, the wind swaying the home ever so slightly to and fro. There were great flashes of lightning, and she was very, very scared. She decided to run across the lawn which separated the mobile home from the old, familiar house, to join my cousin in the safety of her home. While doing so, she said, she had watched a small, bright blue ball of lightning approaching her, seemingly rolling in the air as it approached her. It surrounded her as she continued on her way, a new burning sensation in her lungs. In a few seconds she was safely in her niece's house.

Mom became ill shortly after this, and eventually sought help from her doctor. She was sent for a battery of tests, and then on to a hospital in Columbus, Ohio, for a biopsy. The surgery disclosed she had developed lung cancer which had apparently metasticized to other parts of her body. Her prognosis was terminal.

Over the next few weeks we all took turns spending time with her. On September 23, 1980, we all gathered at the nursing home where she was being provided care. All six of her kids were there as a gentle rain fell outside the building, soaking the ground and freshening the air. My brothers and sisters and step-father all drifted away, back to their homes. It was my turn to spend the night with Mom. I walked outside the building, felt and smelled the rain, and looked up at the clearing sky, a field of stars twinkling in the night. I walked back to her room, sat beside her on the bed, and lifted her head and shoulders. I took her hand in mine...she could not speak, but she squeezed my hand firmly and held on. We sat like that for hours. I whispered to her that it was time to go. A tear formed in her eye, and she died. Outside the rain began to fall again.

One Quiet Moment

To Mom

She nestled in my arms,

Her raven hair streaked with grey.

Her cheek rested softly against my shirt,

She clasped her hand in mine,

And squeezed gently.

A faint smile crossed her lips.

She breathed deeply.

A tear formed at the corner of her eye,

And cascaded slowly down her cheek.

Then all was still,

Until my sobbing broke the silence.

© 2002 Ralph Lowell Coleman, Jr. All rights reserved.

Roll of Honor

At the northeast corner of Sycamore and Maple Streets, the two primary arteries which crisscross North Lewisburg, stands an old, red brick building which has served as a pharmacy, jewelry store, and currently as a realty office.  On the building's western wall is a unique memorial...a Roll of Honor...which lists the names of the young men and women of the community who went off to fight the nation's wars.

The original Roll of Honor was a hand-painted memorial on a wall of yet another of the town's buildings.  It was created in World War I to honor the town's residents who were engaged in that conflict.  As time passed, that memorial was "moved" to the red brick building, and graced that wall until another conflict - World War II - beckoned yet other men and women to service.

The names of the World War I veterans who appeared on the first Roll of Honor, and the graphics which accompanied those names,  were eventually diminished in size and cast as a bronze plaque.  This plaque was then attached to the stone base of the flagpole which stands at the entrance to Maple Grove Cemetery, on Gilbert Road, a mile or so from the town.

As World War II progressed, the names of the community's servicemen and servicewomen were hand-painted.  Graphic representations of the American eagle, with outstretched wings, the flag, and stars adorned the wall.  When word was received that one of the town's men was killed in battle, a bright, gold star was added in front of his name.  Over the course of the four years of war, the number of names - and the number of gold stars - painted on the wall grew.  By war's end, there were columns of names and stars.

The Roll of Honor remained that way until a new war broke out in Korea in 1950.  Once again, the youth of North Lewisburg answered the call to duty.  The wall was repainted to show the names not just of the veterans of World War II, but also those of the Korean War. 

Years passed, and a new generation of youth was called to service in Viet Nam.  New names appeared on the wall where there had only recently been blank spaces.  Walter R. Burroughs, a young Private First Class serving with the U. S. Army in Viet Nam in 1966, was the first to be listed as a casualty of that war...in point of fact, he was the first casualty from Champaign County to be killed in that conflict.

Over the course of the next two decades, the wall and the Roll of Honor took on a new look.  Practically all of the space on the wall was filled with the names of veterans from those three major conflicts:  World War II, Korea, and Viet Nam.  Occasionally, the fading paint was restored to brilliance, and a name which might have been overlooked was squeezed onto the wall wherever it was possible.  But weather and time took its toll on the Roll of Honor.

In 1994, there was a concerted effort on the part of the community to build a new, more lasting tribute to the town's veterans.  A fund-raising project was organized, and soon a new marble memorial, complete with etched names, floodlights, benches, and flagpole was erected and dedicated in a small park - where once the old high school had stood - on East Street, a few blocks further east of the Sycamore-Maple Street intersection.   The bronze plaque bearing the names of the World War I veterans was removed from Maple Grove Cemetery, and attached in a place of honor on the new memorial.  I'm proud of the fact that my name appears on that memorial.

After 1994, the old, original wall remained on the red brick building, the paint blistered, faded, and in sorry need of repair.  It had been thought that the new memorial would quietly replace the old, painted Roll of Honor.  But old things and old traditions have the habit of continuing.

The Roll of Honor, silent sentinel of the community's appreciation of liberty, has just recently received new paint.  The names stand out once again, their numbers bearing visual proof of the sacrifices which must be made for freedom. 

If you, the reader, should someday make your way to or through North Lewisburg, Ohio, pull your vehicle aside somewhere near the intersection of Sycamore and Maple Streets.  Get out, and walk the short distance to that old, red brick building.  Let your eyes wander over the many names you will see there.  Heroes, some; patriots, all.    Maybe you will find some name which stands out, or which gives you pause to reflect.  Or, perhaps like me, you will be able to find one of those very special stars of the fallen  - like my Dad - who gave all of their tomorrows for us.  I made it a habit a long time ago in my youth, and continue it now in my advanced years whenever I return to the old hometown, to reach out and touch his star. 

But,  if you cannot journey to the Roll of Honor, pause where you are in your own community, and take the time to thank a veteran.

This Old House

In North Lewisburg, on Sycamore Street, just a block north of the community's "Main Street"  - which in this case is actually Maple Street - is the home of Mike and Peggy Chamberlain.  This old house is the first framed home ever built in the community, and dates back to 1839 when it was constructed by Gray Gary, one of the town's original settlers. 

The two-story house, now asbestos-shingled, has had various add-ons completed over the years which expanded the size of the home.  In the course of its nearly-160 years, the old house has been mute witness to the many comings and goings of traffic along Sycamore Street.  Where once horse-drawn buggies  rolled along the byway, modern 18-wheelers now carry much-needed supplies and finished products to and from the Honda automobile plant just across the line in Union County. 

Friday and Saturday nights in the not-too-distant-past were a flurry of activity along this street as the area's families met "downtown" to complete the week's shopping, or to deliver the farmers' eggs, milk, and butter to awaiting customers.  The street festivals were regular events as people gathered to celebrate one particular holiday or another with food, games, and conversations.

The house bore witness to the old steam locomotives and more modern diesel engines which once carried passengers and freight to and from the community.  The old railroad bed sits just north of the house, the rails long ago pulled up to be melted down for recycling, and the old creosoted ties now visible throughout the community, likewise recycled into raised flower beds and garden retainers. 

Spain Creek meanders just a few feet farther north, as it has for countless years.  The house has seen the creek as a mere trickle of water over the years, with occasional bursts of power and authority as torrents of flood waters spilled over the banks to saturate the landscape.

Generations of people have called the house "home" over the course of its history.  If the walls could talk, they would be a boundless source of information about the human activity which they have witnessed...the laughter and tears, the joys and sorrows, the sicknesses, the deaths, and all of the other events which make up human lives.

Yet, the old house sits mutely awaiting what is next in the grand scheme of things.

About Spain Creek

     This site is a forum for historical facts, tall tales, nostalgia, and general information about the past, present, and future along Spain Creek, near North Lewisburg, in northeastern Champaign County, Ohio. Hopefully, the site will expand as interest develops over the course of the next few weeks and months. If you have a story to share, a tale to tell, this is the place to do so.

     Spain Creek is a lazy, half-hearted little stream which originates in the hilly region west of Mingo, Ohio, in northeastern Champaign County.  It then flows east toward the little community of North Lewisburg, which straddles the junction of Champaign, Logan, and Union counties.  Just beyond the community, as it meanders along State Route 245, the stream joins up with Big Darby Creek.  Its waters eventually converge with those of the Scioto River.

     Spain Creek, for all practical purposes, divides North Lewisburg into halves.  The northern section of the village has sprouted up along Sycamore Street, which runs north and south from the southern boundary of town to the northern-most corner.  The street, once lined with stately sycamore trees, is a thoroughfare for the heavy commuter traffic for employees and suppliers of the Honda automobile factory which sits further northeast in Union county.  Heavy eighteen-wheelers and fuel economic cars and trucks speed over a roadbase which was once-upon-a-time rutted by the narrow wheels of buggies and other horse-drawn conveyances.

     The southern section of the town houses the traditional "Main Street" business section, which in this case is Maple Street, which runs from west-to-east.  Here can be found the "mom and pop" operations which serve as the lifeblood of the community...the historic Cafe 559, the pizza shop, the bank, the grocery store, the auto repair shops, and a spattering of other commercial ventures.  Some once-prosperous stores are now closed, their vacant storefronts home only to the occasional spider.  Some buildings are in a perpetual state of decay, in need of paint and repairs to improve their overall appearance.  Some buildings are gone entirely, victims of fire or other abuse.

     There are churches in town, with histories which date back nearly two hundred years.  The Methodists and Baptists, and Catholics are well-represented here in a town which was once predominantly Quaker.  The old red-brick Quaker, or Society of Friends, church still stands in the north end of the community, although it no longer is used for that purpose.  It has become the local branch of the Champaign County Library system, with headquarters in Urbana, Ohio.  The old cemetery, long in a state of decay and unattended, has experience a renewal of sorts as volunteers have stepped in to reclaim it and to preserve the remaining gravesites and monuments.

     It is a quiet community, more rural than urban, as it wrestles with progress and not-necessarily accepted changes to the normal order of things.  New additions to the community have become necessary as the need developed for more and more affordable housing.  Apartment complexes and townhouses have sprung up like mushrooms in areas which were once pasture and farmland.  There are no public school buildings in the community, those which were once there having given way to progress.  The students are now bussed or otherwise commute to the elementary, middle, and high school buildings which are more than three miles away, and "in the country."  There is no movie theater, no swimming pool, no public park - outside of the community park which serves as home for the town's obsession with junior baseball and fast-pitch softball games.  There is a bike path which meanders along the lazy creek, following an old railroad bed which once brought supplies, produce, mail and passengers to a now vanished train depot. 

     The creek has cut its way through this area for many hundreds of years...perhaps even thousands.  It has witnessed it all, from the arrival of the first settlers and the platting of the village, to the most recent celebrations of townsfolk.  If it could talk - oh, what tales it could tell us!